Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries Read online

  Six Pack of Sleuths

  Sit back and crack open a killer six pack.

  DEATH BY SARCASM Copyright ©2013 by Dani Amore

  MIAMI MUMMIES Copyright ©2014 by Barbara Silkstone

  MY PERFECT WEDDING Copyright ©2011 by Sibel Hodge

  SADIE’S GUIDE TO CATCHING KILLERS Copyright ©2014 by Zané Sachs

  BEING LIGHT Copyright ©2000 by Helen Smith

  FOOD OF LOVE Copyright ©2012 by Anne R. Allen

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  The Stories

  1. Death by Sarcasm — (Dani Amore)

  2. Miami Mummies — (Barbara Silkstone)

  3. My Perfect Wedding — (Sibel Hodge)

  4. Sadie’s Guide to Catching Killers — (Zané Sachs)

  5. Being Light — (Helen Smith)

  6. Food of Love — (Anne R. Allen)

  DEATH BY SARCASM

  by

  Dani Amore

  DEATH BY SARCASM is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.

  Copyright ©2013 by Dani Amore

  All rights reserved.

  “Packed to the gills with razor-sharp humor,

  hard-hitting action and a non-stop plot.”

  -Jacksonville News

  Sarcasm is the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded.

  -Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  Sarcasm is the language of the devil.

  -Thomas Carlyle

  There’s a fine line between fishing and standing on the shore looking like an idiot.

  -Steven Wright

  One

  Instead of the local rats, a team of crime scene technicians scurried around the grimy alley, popping flashbulbs and taking notes. Occasionally, blue and red lights flashed on the cinderblock walls, courtesy of the black-and-whites blocking each end of the alley.

  Mary Cooper stood next to her uncle’s body. The large pool of blood – to her it looked like a Snow Angel from Hell - had already thickened, turning darker as if its purity had been contaminated by the lingering sins of the alley’s sordid past. And even though the club was just a few blocks from the Pacific, the air held a thick pall of L.A.’s favorite aromatherapy scents: rotting garbage, human piss, and death.

  Mary had said nothing upon her arrival. Now, several minutes later, the uniforms were starting to sneak glances at her, wondering how long she planned to maintain her silent vigil. They unconsciously positioned themselves closer to her, just in case her grief and rage exploded and they needed to restrain her in order to protect the sanctity of the crime scene.

  In the alley behind some two-bit comedy bar called the Leg Pull, Brent Cooper had been shot in the head. A large, deep cut had been made across his belly. The knife, a long, bone handled stiletto was then thrust into the body; its perfect verticality looked like an exclamation point to Mary. And the knife held in place a note.

  The words on the paper were in thick block letters, probably from a Magic Marker.

  Bust a gut.

  Mary tore her eyes away from her uncle and glanced up at the officer now standing directly in front of her, watching her. His eyes seemed to implore her to express her emotions, but in a calm, measured way. She could guess what he was thinking. That maybe she would tell him a cute little story about how her uncle used to swing her in the air and threaten to withhold ice cream if she screamed. Or maybe she would tell him how her uncle used to insist on reading ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas every year in front of a crackling fireplace near the twinkling tree. But Mary offered no tidbits. For one thing, Mary had no such stories. Nobody would ever confuse their family with the Cleavers. And while there was definitely grief, and an abundance of rage, she had used the time observing her dead uncle to unclench her fists. To slow her racing heartbeat, and to gather her thoughts. She pushed aside her own feelings and coolly observed the crime scene. Took in the facts of the murder. But at some point, she knew she had to say something to the uniforms.

  So then, at last, she turned to them and spoke.

  “Are you sure he’s not just asleep?”

  Two

  Detective Jacob Cornell emerged from a dark section of the alley and nodded to the uniform guarding the crime scene. Cornell was a big man, with a considerable physique, and a handsome-ish face. Not the kind that would land him on the cover of GQ, but certainly could find him a place in a Walmart flyer modeling $7.99 flannel shirts. Now, he wore a sportcoat that camouflaged his powerful upper body, and khakis that hid the ankle gun Mary knew he always wore.

  “Jesus Christ, Mary, he’s your uncle…was your uncle,” he said, his voice a whisper. “I mean, I called you here because I thought you would want to know. I mean, I know it’s not my place, but, a little respect, a little decorum…” His voice trailed off.

  Mary nodded in agreement, as if she was glad she’d been properly admonished.

  “True, true,” she said. “That’s a very, very good point, Jake.” She paused. “It’s just that he was always such a heavy sleeper. It runs in the family.” She cut her eyes over at him, winked, and said, “You know that.”

  Jacob Cornell closed his eyes and held them shut for a beat. And then when he opened them, he looked at her with a sideways glance. “This is not the time and it certainly isn’t the place,” he said, his voice soft.

  Mary felt warmed by his indignity. A little pissed that he was judging her, but she was used to that by now. Nobody would ever liken her to an open book. But still, despite his many faults, an overly developed sensitivity chief among them, Mary didn’t mind knowing someone like Jake. So good. So nice. So friggin’ cute.

  “I’m not sure why you’re focusing on me, instead of my dead uncle lying over there in repose,” Mary said. “But since you’re questioning me, I ought to remind you that he was a comedian, Jake,” she said. “Believe me, if the roles were reversed, he’d be standing right here saying, ‘What’s the big deal? I’ve died hundreds of times at comedy clubs – but it was always on stage.’” She pantomimed a rim shot. “Boom ch,” she said.

  One of the crime scene technicians looked up from his notepad at Mary. She caught his gaze and held it until he looked back down. Jake pulled out a notepad and tried to hide the guilty look on his face.

  “Come on,” she said to him. They walked to the end of the alley and Mary looked west, toward the ocean. She couldn’t see anything. Just a vast darkness. She turned and caught her reflection in the store window. Did she look like a woman who’d just identified the corpse of a family member? She studied herself, saw a lean woman with a strong face wearing an expression that was open to interpretation. Just the way Mary liked it.

  Jake broke into her thoughts. “A waitress on her smoke break found him,” he said, still speaking softly. “She ran back in and…”

  “Was he already dead?”

  Jake hesitated, then said, “She thinks he may have been…twitching a little.”

  Mary nodded. Her hands involuntarily formed themselves into fists. She forced them back open, willed them to relax.

  “So she runs in, calls 911, then finds the manager and the
y go out together,” Jake continued. “By then, he’s definitely dead.”

  “Had they seen him inside? Before?”

  “We’re talking to everyone now,” he said. “A few people thought they saw him at the bar, having a drink. A couple others thought he might have done a couple minutes on stage. But no one knows if he left with someone or by himself.”

  “Who was on stage when he was there? Who was performing?”

  Jake looked at her, his face blank. “Umm…I’ll have someone check on that.”

  “Might be worth looking into,” Mary said. “Maybe he came specifically for the show. He’d been around comedy clubs for a long time. Maybe he knew the headliner–”

  “Oh, shit,” Jake said, his breath going out of him with a rush. The pen froze above his notepad. He looked directly behind Mary, over her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your loss,” a voice said. Mary felt the chill of recognition and her stomach turned sour. She turned and came face to face with Jacob Cornell’s superior. Mary should have known the woman would show up.

  “Sergeant Davies,” Mary said, her voice calmer and more in control than she would have thought possible. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”

  Arianna Davies was tall, thin, and pale. Her black hair was cut short. Mary knew that her nickname around the squad room was The Shark. Davies had a well-earned reputation as an apex predator. Now, Mary’s comment hadn’t even caused her to dilate a pupil. Mary noticed, however, that Detective Cornell looked like he wished he could liquefy himself and slide down the storm drain. It was the exact same expression he’d had on when Mary let herself into his apartment only to find The Shark literally eating him alive.

  “Ah, I see that at least the Cooper wit still lives on,” Davies said.

  Mary felt a spark of anger flash inside her, but she held her face still.

  “And speaking of unwanted interruptions,” the Shark said to Jake. “I assume you were interviewing Ms. Cooper.” The way Davies raised her voice at the end made the statement both a question and an indictment.

  “Actually, we were just finishing up–” Jake said.

  “Good.” Davies turned to Mary and spoke in a flat monotone. “You have our deepest sympathies. We will keep you up to date with the progress of the investigation. You will not do any investigating of your own. If you are observed anywhere near this case, you will be arrested and your private investigator’s license revoked. Is that understood?”

  Mary seemed to absorb Davies’ speech with thoughtful concentration. Then she turned to Jake and gestured with her thumb back toward Davies.

  “I thought these new robots were equipped with better voice modulators,” she said.

  Three

  Mary wound up at a dive bar on Ocean Boulevard that had been there since the Rat Pack was big.

  Three strong drinks later, Mary looked at herself again in the bar mirror, remembering the young cop standing across from her, her dead uncle between them. The cop had looked at her, expecting her to choke out through great sobs a heart-touching story about the old man. Goddamnit, she didn’t have any stories. Uncle Brent had been a first-class smart-ass, just like everyone else in the family. He’d made her laugh a couple times, though. Like the time he’d told their church lady neighbor that he’d been up in Hollywood, making porn movies. Uncle Brent claimed to be making five movies a day, ten bucks a shot. He’d said his stage name was Dickie Ramms.

  Mary had been in high school around that time, and she had nearly pissed her pants. Now, she suddenly started at her reflection. Mary was shocked to see a smile on her face, and even more stunned to see moisture around her eyes. It was leaking out onto her cheek. She brushed it away with the back of her hand.

  “Quiver,” she said, replaying the family tradition when someone was about to cry. “Come on, quiver,” she said to her reflection.

  And that Davies? Come on. What in the world was Jake thinking? She was all wrong for him. Christ, if he wanted a sheet of plywood he should have just gone to Home Depot. Maybe he had some kind of weird fetish for women resembling corpses. Necrophilia Lite. Uh, God, she thought. She felt nauseated over the thought of a corpse. Her uncle. Fuck. What a shitty way to go. The anger came back, and she welcomed it. It was much better than the self-pity she was on the verge of diving into.

  The bartender walked over and noticed her expression.

  “Everything okay?” he asked. Mary thought she saw a touch of actual caring, along with a healthy dose of good old-fashioned curiosity.

  Mary wiped her nose. “No, everything’s not okay. I just lost my uncle.”

  The bartender started to offer his condolences, but Mary cut him off.

  “But,” she said. “I haven’t looked under the fridge yet.”

  The bartender paused, then walked away, shaking his head. Mary shrugged her shoulders. There were people who got her. And there were people who didn’t.

  She’d long since given up trying to figure out who was who.

  Four

  Hey Brent, what are those photographers shooting? Your last head shot? Damn. Felt good to see that bastard julienned in the alley. It’d felt even better to stick the knife in him, to see the shock on his face.

  I’m sitting a block away at a little Coffee Beanery, watching the death parade. The rats actually found him first. Maybe even gnawed a little on the body before someone called the cops.

  Revenge was a dish served best over and over again. Third, fourth, fifth helpings. Keep it coming, baby.

  Cops don’t have a clue, either.

  You’re the first bookend, Brent.

  Start off big, with one of the leaders. Sandwich a few of the sheep in between, then end big with the other bookend.

  The set-up and then the big punch line.

  Who’s laughing now, asshole?

  Who’s laughing now?

  Five

  Mary parked her Buick in front of Aunt Alice’s house. The Buick was just one of her cars. She had a Lexus when she needed to meet with clients or set up surveillance in the wealthier part of L.A. She also had a Honda Accord when she needed to blend in as an employee of a firm downtown. They were parked in the garage back at her office. When she needed something really expensive, say a Porsche or a Ferrari, she just rented it. But Mary used the old Buick for occasions that took her into the financially depressed sections of L.A.

  The great thing about the Buick was that even though it was old, it didn’t have many miles and it had surprisingly smooth power. Still, she’d endured quite a bit of heckling for it. A woman just north of thirty driving a Buick. She’d heard it all. Was the trunk big enough for a full case of adult diapers? Had she gotten an AARP discount? What was the dual temperature control for – menopausal hot flashes?

  The sad thing was, most of those jokes had been her own.

  Now, the morning sun warmed her back as she stepped onto the porch of the small house in a quiet part of Santa Monica. Alice Cooper had lived there for forty years. She and her husband bought the house back when she was acting and doing comedy. Alice’s husband had died of cancer, an agonizing two-year battle. Alice had kept both the house and her maiden name.

  While Alice’s career had never recovered, the southern California real estate market certainly had. Right now, Alice probably had the lowest property taxes in town. When, and if, Alice ever sold the place, she’d be a very wealthy woman.

  Mary gave a quick knock, unlocked the door with her key, and walked inside.

  Aunt Alice sat in the living room with the television off and a scrapbook in her lap. She was in a wheelchair, one arm in a cloth sling, and one leg in a brace. The older woman had been riding her motorized three wheeler when she’d hit a parked car and flipped over it, onto the hood. Mary had always been a frequent visitor to the house, but ever since the accident, she’d been stopping by every day.

  “Hey there Evel Knievel,” Mary said. “Want me to line up some barrels outside? Go for the record?”
>
  Alice shook her head. “Always a comment. Even now.” But a small smile peeked out from the corner of her mouth.

  Mary gave her aunt a hug and took in the comforting scent she’d known since she was a kid: laundry detergent and a hint of garlic. Mary glanced at the scrapbook in Alice’s lap and she saw an old picture of Uncle Brent. Mary rubbed Alice’s back and her voice softened. “How are you holding up?” she said.

  Alice sighed, shook her head, and flipped the page of the scrapbook. “One day at a time, I guess.”

  “Want some lunch?” Mary said.

  Alice said nothing, just studied a picture in the scrapbook even more closely.

  “How about I whip up a rump roast?” Mary said, heading to the kitchen. “Or a butt steak. Butt steak sound good?”

  “When did you first realize you enjoyed abusing the elderly?” Alice said.

  “I don’t actually enjoy it,” Mary called from the kitchen. “It’s really more of a calling.”

  Alice wheeled herself closer to the kitchen so neither one had to shout.

  Mary took the box of Mac ‘n Cheese from the cupboard and ripped it open. “So I thought I’d start by searing some foie gras,” she said, then set a pot of water on the stove to boil. She set the dried pasta and packet of cheese on the counter. Mary detested Mac ‘n Cheese, had had it maybe twice in her whole life when she was a kid and went to a friend’s house – it was never served in her own.

  Mary had tried in vain to convince Aunt Alice to let her make real macaroni and cheese, the old fashioned way with good cheese and really good pasta, but Aunt Alice insisted on the boxed crap for lunch. Old people just get into routines, Mary told herself when she finally gave up. They fall into routines, then they fall down stairs. It’s all a part of nature’s aging process. All part of God’s master plan.